a week in words

When I started writing this diary I didn’t imagine it would be so… medical,  but such is life, you can’t plan nor prevent these things, that much is not in our control. Never again will I tempt the fates by saying, ‘Blah, blah, blah… I never get ill…’ So those fates, who hear EVERYTHING are teaching me a universal lesson, and I find myself in hospital again, I won’t bore you with the details.

It’s so strange being out of your environment, in another bed that’s definitely not yours and definitely not a bed you want to roll over and find yourself in.  My brother called me on the actual phone.  Now, I don’t think that my brother has called me since my 30th birthday, he doesn’t even OWN a phone, I had to stop myself laughing because I think he thought I might cark it, and Lil runs off this morning saying, ‘bye mum, pizza for tea perrllleeeaaaassseee’ then shouts over her shoulder ‘DON’T DIE!’ OK my little darling, it wasn’t on the list of things to do today – on the list today was: fall asleep with my headphones on, wake up seriously mangled in my headphones, watch 50 episodes of Mad Men, the whole series of Girlboss, Annie Hall (for Diane Keaton’s wardrobe), The Graduate (so don’t need a reason for that), sleep some more, oh, and stay alive – Sarah, keep yourself alive, lady.  Check. Got it.

Aside from it being scary and shit to be in hospital it’s a great place for a people watcher like me. Every cloud.  A man walks down the quiet corridor whistling Don’t Worry Be Happy, such a good whistler, whistling is underrated.  And I liked his chipper attitude, I wish I could have put a face to the whistle but the curtains round my bed were drawn and I looked like the one that’s just been blown up in a Tom and Jerry cartoon.  The woman in the bed opposite me tells the nurse her birth date and I practice my shitty maths on my fingers trying to work out how old she is (76), she goes for a pee on a commode in the night and she farts and it’s the longest fart I have ever heard in my life.  I didn’t know it was even actually possible to fart like that.  And my shoulders are shaking because it’s so, so funny and my knuckles are in my mouth because it’s so quiet (apart from a woman howling in the next ward – that’s why I’m awake, I dreamt I was in the company of wolves climbing a hill and they were howling, it was cool.  Then I woke up. And it wasn’t cool.  And my friend asked me if they’d stuck me in the psych ward when I told her about the howling woman. They didn’t.)  I don’t want my roomie to hear me laughing.  And that quote, by who? Byron? comes to mind; ‘when a man tires of London he tires of life.’ And I think ‘when a woman does not find farts funny then it’s time to say adios’, or to hang up the knee high support socks you’ve been instructed to put on to prevent deep vein thrombosis.  I look at my legs stretched out and I like the colour, Air Force blue, I reckon with the right outfit I could rock those anti-DVT bad boys. Not today though.

I’m home now dear reader, but there’s not much food this week, which is a definite drawback for a food blog, but as Nora Ephron said, you can’t stop a writer writing, so life’s fair game for the page.  There has been lots of time in bed – my bed! Hallelujah, God I love that bed, sweet baby Jesus and Mary mother of god, I was so happy to fling myself on it when I got home.  I’ve been in it for most of the week, there are worse places to be.

There’s music, music, music, as ever. I felt sad about Chris Cornell’s suicide, I have very happy memories of Soundgarden – being carefree, travelling, sharing a house that was busier than a downtown bus station with a very lovely bunch of characters, being young and stupidly in love, my best friend and I playing Superunknown so loud (drunk) doing air guitar moves on our knees and managing to get complaints from almost every floor of the flats I lived in at the time. Skills. I reminded her of that night today on the phone and it was good to hear her laughing, remembering.  All Night Thing by Temple of the Dog is one of my favourite songs too.  Those lyrics – ‘falling like rain, into her skin’. That voice.  His voice was an absolute joy, a range that left you speechless.  How horribly sad that life is/was just sometimes not enough.  There’s a great obituary here in The Guardian.  But, on a separate, happier note, I was reminded this week how god damn amazing the bass in Sympathy for the Devil is- I very much appreciate a good bass and I’ve had a lot of time on my hands this week… Music has kept me on the right side of sane, I won’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to certain tracks on repeat, or we may have to agree to disagree on the meaning of ‘sane’.

Right, what shall I wear with these foxy socks?



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